


And I Don't Know If I'm Ever Coming Home

by annieke



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Confusion, Hurt Danny "Danno" Williams, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annieke/pseuds/annieke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny's hurt and lost and doesn't understand how he got here. Why he's here. Or where here even is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Don't Know If I'm Ever Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hurt comfort with a bit of a twist. Somewhat creepy images appear in parts, mainly in Danny's head.
> 
> Many, many thanks to SBG for pointing at places that needed pushing, and at places that needed clarifying. For pointing out that Steve can still feel weak in the knees, even if he is a SEAL. For prompting me to fix that damn em dash issue. ha.
> 
> Also? For mentioning the Monkees and the Last Train to Clarksville and yeah. That's where the title comes from, only this train sure isn't that train. Hope you all enjoy this.
> 
> Can also be found at lj [here](http://annieke.livejournal.com/5439.html)

It’s a screaming whine that pierces the inside of his head, a shrill screech of metal against metal and his hands clench tightly into fists at the same time his back and shoulders go rigid, tensing before he's even truly awake—and what the hell? Danny knows that sound. Train brakes. Subway. Which has him struggling to open eyelids heavy and leaden, and when he does, finds himself peering out a subway train's truly grimy windows.

A muffled voice plays over the speaker in the car, words too garbled to understand, as though the recording was made under water. Or maybe it's just him. Except for the harsh scream of the train’s brakes, there's a buffering in his ears that’s making all other sound seem dull and distant, as if he’s inside a box filled with white noise. 

Which makes no sense. Isn't right. Doesn't feel right. He doesn't feel right. None of this _feels_ right.

For starters, this isn't his train. At least, not the one he takes home. He should be on the PATH headed to New Jersey, not the subway headed—where? Uptown, maybe, which is as far from his and Rachel's little shoebox apartment in Hoboken as one can get. How in the hell is he in Manhattan, anyway?  
   
How is he here? What time is it? What’s he doing here? Nothing seems right, yet he can't put his finger on what it is, exactly, that is wrong. Can’t figure what's going on—why his world is somehow tilting off-kilter in a way that he can't right and is only making his head pound with a sickening cadence the more he tries to clear up his confusion.

Hurts. His head really hurts in more than just a headache way, and he rubs fingers along temples to find just moving his arms that little bit an almost impossible task. His body is heavy and unyielding, anchored into the seat that's facing the train’s doors. The subway tunnel walls are speeding by the window in a nausea-inducing blur of color. 'What's going on?' he wonders with a sigh, and closes his eyes against the persistent pounding inside his skull, resting for a minute to try to trudge his way through the muddied waters of his mind.

Think. He just needs to think for a minute. Was he out drinking all night? Is that what this is about? Goddamn if Matty and the guys are playing some sort of joke by getting him drunk and then sticking him on the subway heading uptown. Wonders if that's what's going on, and if it is, he's going to fucking kill Matt. He is, he will—just, damn, but his head hurts. Which, okay, makes sense if he’s been out all night drinking …

Thing is, though, he doesn’t remember—and while he definitely feels like total shit, he doesn't feel the awful thick-tongued wooziness that typically stems from a night of too much drinking. 

Which, okay … he shifts upright again and holy fuck, that hurts. A searing pain stabs into his gut and he bends over. Jesus, what—can’t catch a breath. He can only inhale so far, it’s not easy, sucks in shallow pants between clenched teeth and just what in the fucking fuck? Appendicitis? What? It's sharp and hot and deep and goddamn wretched; he's breaking out in a sweat, beads of it trickling down his face and neck. Palms his side, presses some and…oh, god. He’s going to be sick, he is. God, he is…

There's a voice in his head repeating the word, 'breathe', over and over, and he tries to do just that—focuses on that faint inner voice and its plea to hang on and breathe—

Breathe, breathe, breathe. Slow breaths. Calm. In and out, in and out, in and… The pain relents some, enough the black spots stop dancing on the periphery, enough he can move again—thank fuck—and he shifts back in his seat, half-gulping down air and feeling himself drift for a while as his body uncoils.

What in the hell is happening? How is he even here?

A quick glance through slivered eyes shows the car to be almost empty. Wherever that stop was that woke him must have been popular as there's only one other rider occupying the car, several seats away. Her dark head is bowed as if she's reading something in her lap—or praying, maybe. Even from here he can smell a faint trace of something burning coming from her general direction. Hopes she knows there's no smoking on the trains; just the thought of the smell of cigarettes sends his stomach back to churning. He is not going to puke, no—just no.

The brakes screech again as the train pulls to its next stop. His head's still killing him; a rhythmic, sickening pulse that makes it difficult to keep eyes open but the station's name is out there, written in the tiles, if he could just get his vision focused enough to read what it says. The more he tries, though, the blurrier his sight and that just makes his headache grow from marginally insidious to flat out godawful impending migraine. Great.

As he presses his fingers to his temples, he hears the whoosh of the doors parting and half-registers a man getting on and heading to the other side of the car, not far away from him and the woman. Danny can see his profile, gets a glimpse of his full face for a half a second before the guy turns away. Something seems vaguely familiar about him, whether his face or the cut of his shoulders as he sits or—definitely something—but whatever the semblance of recognition, it's not cutting through his veritable haze of confusion.

What is the matter with him?

Why doesn't any of this seem…right?

Two more people walk on, both looking directly at him as he tries to look past them to the find the station’s name. They move to sit on opposite sides of the car, and again Danny senses a familiarity. Does he know them? Because he feels like there’s something…

He gasps against another sudden hot needle of agony searing through his gut, feeling like it’s piercing through everything vital along the way—oh, shit, it’s intense. This can’t be good. He clutches the metal pole to his right, fingers wrapped tightly as he pants and, Jesus, what the hell is wrong with him? Sickening heat is low and to the right of his belly and biting sharp—what exactly did he do last night?

He can't remember. Can't think; nothing comes to mind, and the more he tries to concentrate the more he feels the answer drifting away. It's a sieve, his mind right now. There, but not there in fleeting moments. Just how much _did_ he imbibe last night, anyway?

The train lurches forward again, picking up speed and as the fire inside him finally settles to a somewhat bearable ache, he blows out a long breath and looks to the people sharing his car. Wants to ask where it is they are, where it is they’re headed, but also realizes maybe letting a bunch of strangers in on the fact that he’s confused and unsure isn’t the best of ideas.

He’s not a tourist here, after all. This city is part of home, even if he is on a train in the Big Apple instead of heading home to Jersey. He's supposed to be heading home. He’ll figure out where he is, what train he’s on in just a bit.

Only…

Even that doesn't feel right. Home. Home is New Jersey. Right? God, he's not even sure about that, not sure about anything. Nothing seems normal. Feels like he’s drifting, thoughts coming and going and even the train around him seems to be fading and shifting in waves. He’s sick; he can feel it all over. His head aches, his belly. His skin, his hair—his teeth. Really sick, maybe. Alcohol poisoning?

Looks around at one point and, wait—these people on the train, are they all staring at him? It feels like…can they sense his confusion? Do they know?

No. Impossible. He’s just been sitting here, doing and saying nothing. Barely breathing.

The harsh fluorescent lights in the car dim and then cut out, everything going black for long enough he starts to panic even though he knows this happens frequently.

Thing is, when they come back on Danny’s startled to find one of the passengers has moved. Is sitting right next to him, staring right at him and holy shit that's unnerving and he jerks back which sends fire shooting through his gut again and—god, did that pathetic sound just come out of his mouth? The guy says something, at least Danny thinks he said something—he did hear a man's voice—but whatever the words were, he’s not deciphering.

Something is familiar, though, about the guy. Danny knows him. Feels like he does, anyway, and not in a good way. He senses his hand drifting down to where his gun should be but isn’t, and he’s about to shove the guy away because all of his instincts are screaming to him that this is all so very, very wrong—something is just so very wrong here—when the train lurches hard as it brakes to a stop at the next station.

With the whoosh of the doors, the guy suddenly moves away at the same time an elderly woman is stepping into the car. Danny watches the guy take a seat not too far away, senses, still, that he knows him somehow. Sense that the others on the train are watching. He shivers hard, an icy wave rolling deeply through him from his head to his toes and he shudders as it undulates through him. It's just freaking odd that he can feel so cold while also so hot; trails of sweat are leaving long trails down his back, dampening his shirt.

“Is this seat taken?”

“Huh?” Looks up to find the older woman standing next to him, her dark eyes glancing around and then pointedly nodding to the seat to his right and she drops herself down in it before he can utter a yes, no, or get the fuck away. The train starts up again with a lurch and she wraps a bony hand around the metal pole stationed between their knees.

“Lawd, it has been a day,” she says while pulling her overly stuffed shopping bag onto her lap. She shuffles around a bit, getting comfortable, he supposes, and he finds himself watching her settle. “These old bones are achin’ some, honey. I can tell you that rightly.”

She’s small, petite, Rachel would call her, with gray hair wound on top of her head in an old-fashioned bun, and enough of an accent to let him know she’s definitely not from around here. Her skin is dark and softly lined and when he meets her eyes, a sense of warmth and kindness seeps through him, as though she’s just given him some sort of a blessing. This woman is definitely somebody’s kindly old grandmother.

She looks at him a long beat then starts rummaging through that large bag of hers. “I must look a sight. Now where did that silly thing get to? Honestly, the bigger the bag, the more I carry. The more I lose things.”

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t know what to say. Still, there’s something about her that he feels drawn to, and he’s glad she’s chosen to sit next to him.

“Which ain’t any a’ yer fault, child,” she then says, and although she’s looking at him, none of what she's saying makes sense. He can hear her clearly, though. So that’s a plus. “No sir. This all rests right on me, don’t you know.” She offers him a wide, toothy smile then and half pats him on the knee. “We’ll get it taken care of rightly, though. Don’t you fret.”

What?

She’s rummaging around in her bag, half muttering and occasionally chuckling and he’s pretty damn sure she’s a loony tune.

Still, she seems harmless enough…unlike…

They’ve moved closer. All of them. Danny looks up to find they’ve all moved two or three seats closer to him, and he tenses because how creepy is that? There are more people now, too; how did he miss them all getting on the train? 

He’s about to say something when one of them, a young black man who Danny’s sure he knows somehow, shifts forward in his seat which allows his coat to fall open and…blood. There's blood on his neck and down his shirt. His neck and chest seem to be soaked in it and Danny wants to say something, tries to but can’t--and the guy’s just staring at him, staring him down, and Danny knows those eyes. Is sure he’s seen them…he knows him. He’s sure he knows him.

Knows them all, somehow, but he can’t place them. Can't think…

Danny starts to stand and finds a hand grabbing his, pulling him to his seat. “Sit down, child. You sit right here next to me, you hear?”

He can’t stop looking at them all now, though. Faces he’s sure he knows somehow, but from where? And how?

God, he’s trembling.

She’s talking to him, tugging on his shirt. “You listen to me, sugar. Don’t you pay them no attention. You just take deep breaths now, you're hypervent'latin'.”

What? “I don’t understand,” he mutters, eyes still glued to the faces. They're staring back at him now. All of them.

She’s patting his hand, fingers warm and soft against his skin and he realizes then how cold he truly is feeling. How stiffly he’s holding himself against the shivering.

“Relax, honey. You just relax a bit, close your eyes, and let me find this thing...” she’s digging around in that bag again, taking items out and putting them back and making tsking noises.

“Are you with me, Danny?”

What the hell? Did that guy just say something to him? His eyes shoot to the man over her shoulder, the guy's dark eyes piercing his and how did—he could have sworn he just heard a man's voice speak his name. How is that even possible?

A pinch then, on the skin of his wrist and it's sharp and biting enough to draw his attention back to her. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, but you need to listen to me, alright? You need to keep with me, child. Pay them no mind; you just sit here and either close your eyes or look at me.”

He’s so confused. “I don’t know what I'm...”

She’s pulling at him, tugging at him until he looks at her, and then she smiles as one hand continues to rummage around in her bag. “I know you don’t. I know it and it ain’t your fault one whit, but you just need to pay 'tention to me, and don't give them a never mind.”

He looks at her, watches as her hands continue to dig through her bag. Doesn’t know what’s happening and is feeling so fucking confused. Nothing is making sense.

That guy—did he say his name? He heard something. A man's voice, but how the hell did that guy know his name? He looks up again and flinches—are they all even closer? 

The guy with the dark eyes now sits with the bloody shirt guy. The woman—he knows her, he knows he knows her; her hair is singed, long wisps of smoke spiral off of it to dissipate into the air and he just wants to scream. 

What the hell is going on?

A hand wraps his arm and he jumps, startled. 

“Danny—can you hear me?”

Only she hasn’t said anything, those words didn’t come out of her—she’s just gripping his arm and pulling. He knows that wasn’t her voice. It was—that was—he knows that voice, a man's voice, he does, but he can’t think. Lets his eyes rake over the others, each of them still staring directly back at him, each shifting just that much closer to him and it makes him shift away, which sends heat and nausea and a spike of fiery pain through his gut. He’s sweating again, soaked with it—

“Danny!"

He turns to her, but again, not her voice he’s hearing. It's coming from inside of him. He things. “What?” he asks again, that single word sounding so unsure, so unsteady and he doesn’t even know if she’s heard him or if he's even spoken aloud.

It’s the scream of the brakes again, and the train lurches as it grinds to another stop. This time, doors open but no one gets off. No one gets on, either, but there are people out there on the subway platform. He can see them moving, milling around just past the doors. Lots of people, and he’s staring out when a body walks past and then stops to pause there in the gaping hole made by the opened doors—looking right at him before the train starts up again.

Wait… “Grace?”

It’s her. He knows this. He starts to rise, to head to the doors. Has to get closer. Has to go out there before the doors slide closed because it was... She looked like her. That woman looked just like Grace, his former partner.

Which just isn’t possible.

The old woman has latched onto him, is pulling him down hard into the seat.

Danny points to the door. “That was—I have to go. I know her…”

“Sit down.”

She’s stern in her command, and he turns to her as she tugs hard at him again.

“Sit down.”

“No, I have to go—“

“I said to sit, Danny. You have to sit down.”

The others are on the edge of their seats now, he can sense them watching his every move.

“I don’t want to be here,” he blurts out softly, a child-like whiny plea that echoes strangely in his own ears. Was that his voice?

She gives him a measured look. “I know, child,” she then replies and it takes nothing for him to let her guide him back to sitting. “This ain’t really your train, honey.”

He’s hurting again, his head’s being drilled at the same time that intensely sharp spike is being driven into his side and he can’t help but gasp, “What?” hoping to get some answers—any answers—because none of this is making any sense.

She sighs and straightens up as she shakes her head. “Oh, honey. You ain’t even s’posed to be on this train.”

It’s hard to breathe, hard to speak but he manages to again choke out, “I don’t understand.” Which is a hell of an understatement, he thinks, and suppresses a soft moan against the nausea pressing up from his belly. He’s hurting so much…

“It’s okay, Danny. You’re okay.”

That’s not the woman. That's not her voice, and a quick glance to the others says it’s not them, either. His eyes still, he can’t seem to stop looking at them, because somehow, now, they’re…different. They all look different, with clothing looking somewhat tattered and hair thinned out and skin…changing…

They’re coming apart. They're…

Rotting. They’re decaying.

He vomits then, lurching away to throw up a small amount off to the side and oh, god, those people—those things—they’re all standing now, watching.

She’s not listening, not paying attention to any of this as she’s back to rummaging around in that bottomless bag…

Which crazily sends ‘spoonful of sugar’ into his head, and he turns around in time to see the eyeball of one man ooze out of its socket like a deflated balloon—can’t help the high-pitched giggle that erupts out of him when the man’s nose falls in on itself.

Fucking hell, he is going crazy. 

He’s one of them.

He’s dead.

“No. No! Danny!”

That other voice whips like frantic wind through his head and then blasts away just as hands fall to his back—her hands—pressing onto him while he’s squatting over a small pool of mostly bile. It hurts, he hurts…and god, what the hell is going on?

“Get up, honey. You’re okay. Come sit by me.”

She’s talking, soothing in her tone and he allows her to pull him back to the hard plastic-molded seat, sliding to sit across from the doors once more.

He doesn’t want to look to either side of him. Can feel them there, hovering, waiting for something. For him, he knows. He knows this now.

“Can you hear me? Danny? Please…”

It isn’t her voice he keeps hearing. What is wrong with him?

Just what the fuck is wrong with him?

“This ain’t your place, you unnerstan’ that, honey?”

He’s panting, pain intensifying. He’s confused. He’s terrified. Behind her, these people, these dead things, loom over them. Closer by inches and he doesn’t want to look at them. They can't be real. None of this can be real.

He can hear them breathing—or no, wait, maybe it’s him. Yeah, he can hear himself breathing. Hard. Labored. Panting—

There’s pressure, then, on his chest. Hard, sharp, rhythmic pressure, like someone’s pushing at him over and over—and then he really cannot breathe, isn’t breathing, it's like a vice…

“C’mon, c’mon…”

Voices again, layered like softened echoes bouncing around the cavern that is the inside of his mind. He senses that he knows those voices—that one voice—but can’t latch on, and his eyes drift back to those near him, hovering like vultures waiting to pick apart his dying soul…

“Look at me, Danny. Look at me,” she’s demanding, fingers tight around his thigh this time. “You need to look at me, child. Listen to me.”

He can’t, though, because it hurts. He hurts and it’s too much, his chest is constricted, something's squeezing him there, squeezing his arm, his side—there’s a stabbing in his side and it's burning him internally. It’s so overwhelming, he can't think. Can't breathe.

“You’re here, Danny. You’re here with me.”

He’s never felt so lost and confused…

“Danny!”

“I’m here, Danny. I’m here and I'm not letting go!”

“Look at me, honey.”

“Hold on! Don’t do this!”

“Get back. Sir, you have to let go.”

It’s not making sense, the mix of voices around him. Voices that are there but not there, voices that echo from everywhere and nowhere—and pressure is consuming him, invading his senses; he can’t pinpoint a thing in this sea of swirling sensation where every sound is bouncing off another in a whirlwind of reverberating confusion. He feels like he’s reaching out for something just beyond his grasp, but doesn’t know what or who…

Something hits him, breaking him. Hits him again. Jolting him hard as it sucks all breath from him. Breaks him from the inside.

He gasps and looks up to find the softly lined face of the old lady watching him. 

“You okay now?” she asks, her hand atop his. “You just take a deep breath and relax, all right, honey?” She pulls something out of her bag—finally—mumbling along to herself. “Just gimme a minute to get this thing goin’ here. I swear, back in the day we just had t’ carry around a dime. Now look at all this newfangled stuff they got me fiddlin’ around with.” 

He thinks she’s speaking to herself, although it’s kind of hard to tell as she keeps glancing at him. Smiling at him as he sits there with a hand pressed to his chest because he's sure that’s all that's keeping his broken body together.

"It's okay, honey. You're okay. You just gotta start thinkin' on home."

Home? Where?

“Am I…” Clears his throat. “Am I…” Nods toward the others. “Like them?”

She lets loose a cackle, then offers up some measure of a warm smile. “No, sugar. You ain’t nothin’ like them, nosiree. But, thing is, they want to be like you. That's why they're here. For you.”

“Okay, that’s not at all cryptic,” he tells her, desperately trying to get a handle on this—whatever this is. “Can you—just, tell me what’s going on? I don’t understand where this is—why I’m here!”

“Settle down, honey,” she says and he knows she’s trying to soothe him, but… Nothing is making sense still, and his head hurts, his body hurts, he's hearing voices that aren't there. There are dead people, for god's sake. Right here. Falling apart—literally falling apart—in front of him.

Which makes him want to scream at her that while he'd certainly like to keep calm and enjoy the ride to Hell, at the moment, he doesn't think he can relax or settle down—

"Danny, honey. You have to stop. Focus. Just sit there and think about breathing and lemme get this silly thing..." She pulls out a phone.

A phone.

"You're making a call? Now?" He nods to the phone in her hand and tries desperately to tamp down the rise of nervous giggles that are about to bubble out of him in a torrent. This is it; he's definitely insane. It's the only answer. They're going to lock him up forever. 

She gives him a sideways look that so reminds him of one of Steve's expressions, and then she's softly laughing. "It's a phone, oh, yes. Just not quite like those you be familiar with. Still, can you b'lieve they give me somethin' like this to use at my age? I miss them days a' payphones, when I just had ta' make a call. Now I gotta do all this finger typin' and such. But don't you fret, I just gotta get me connected here."

He doesn't have a clue what the hell she's doing. She's squinting through tiny little reading glasses perched delicately at the end of her nose and texting or emailing or looking up recipes on Google for all the hell he knows—

Wait, wait, wait. Steve. Did he think…Steve?

"You see, honey," she starts as if any of this situation can be explained away in a perfectly normal fashion. "I was right. You weren't s'posed to be ridin' this train at all. This ain't the place for you, but you took a wrong turn somehow, an' I was runnin' late which had you ridin' along for far too many stops an', well, now we gots t' get you goin' in the right direction."

He's listening, but not. She's not making any sense anyway, and there's something, someone—Steve—a feeling he can't explain. He knows that name, he knows—was that the voice from before? Think, he needs to think and—

"Lookit all this typin' I gotta do on this little, tiny thing. Lawd, I am just too old for some a' this new-fangled stuff, I am here to say."

She's laughing, chuckling, still texting or Googling or whatever the hell it is she's doing while he's—while he's—

"Sit back, honey. You just gotta think. Okay, Danny? You gotta think a' where it is you need to be."

While he's dying.

He gags on rising vomit when he makes the mistake of glancing over to the woman with the burning skin, sees that half her face is leaking away from her skull in long, stringy tendrils.

Covers his face with his hands and moans. He can’t do this. Why is he even here?

“You look at me, Danny,” she instructs. "You tell me what happened. Why you're here. Why you shouldn't be and where you should be."

He's trying to think. There are pieces of his life dangling just outside the perimeter of this place—he can feel them just beyond his reach but there's no path to follow to get there.

He can't find them. Can't think; his head is so full of fear and desperate confusion, a spinning kaleidoscope made up of shards of images, splintered fragments that won't piece themselves together, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to place them in any semblance of order or reason.

He doesn't know.

The others are crowding in now, edging closer. He can feel them nearing and he nods toward them. "What are they?"

"Don't worry on them, honey."

"I can't help—god, they're not human." Whispering because they're there. They're right there. Waiting for something. Waiting for him. "They know me, don't they?"

"They don’t know you, they just know of you. You just need to leave them be. You think on yourself. You think of where you need to be, and it ain't here."

He tries, but it's hard. So very hard. Because he hurts so, and his thoughts are wrapped in some sort of hazy gauze that he can't unravel, can't cut through. It's muffling his thoughts and softening those voices he keeps hearing yet can't decipher.

The deep ache in his side starts to grow again—a searing fire that's rising up and out of him like a hot fissure scorching his very flesh. He just wants to go home. Home. He shouldn't be here. Not in New York, not in New—

"Shit," he hisses, bending over and what the hell is making him hurt? There's nothing there, nothing. What is wrong with him?

"You have to think, Danny. Where are you supposed to be?"

"I can't, I— oh, god." His head is pounding, it's going to split open, and he doubles over as the agony in his gut becomes all encompassing. He can't move, can't straighten up. Spreads his hand over his side to hold himself together, and shit—

There is blood. All over his hand. Raises it, stares at it. "What is this?" Looks up at her, and the others are all standing now. Watching him as he holds up his hand now covered in his own blood. "What is this!"

"Danny. Danny!"

Voice again—hers and others, twined around one another, saying things he can't understand. None of this is making a bit of sense.

"Danny. Please!"

That's not her. That's not her voice. He doesn't know what's happening.

God, he's losing his mind.

"Danny. Danny! Danno!"

And then he knows.

“No! Wait! I know—I have a daughter! I can’t be here, I can’t be here.” Panic is rising and he jumps up when Grace—his daughter, Grace—fills his senses. He can smell her. “She needs me, I can’t—" Pulls away from the woman’s hands. “I have to go. I have to—I can’t—I have to go.“

He's racing through the doors, trying to get through and somehow being pulled and pushed at the same time. Hands are touching him everywhere, and there's overwhelming agony speeding a sharp path through his core, and he snaps eyes open and cries out, desperate to escape, desperate for something that still lies just beyond his reach. 

He rises up as he falls away and he realizes there are voices around him, simultaneously nowhere and everywhere, which has him turning, turning, trying to find them, trying to find purchase. Trying to breathe…

But he can't inhale, can't exhale—can't take in air as he melts into nothing, realizing as the world drops away from him that it's his voice all around him now, no one else's. It's him. Screaming. Screaming out until he can't anymore. 

**

It wasn't supposed to have happened. They weren't even supposed to be there. 

It was HPD's case about stolen property, and there were officers notified to question the guy themselves, but then Danny got the call from Chin that said Jonah Kekela was also found to be the last person seen with two tourists found dead the night before, so Steve turned the Camaro around so he and Danny could be there to talk to the guy as well. It just so happened that they got there first.

It took two seconds for hell to break loose.

One minute he and Danny were exiting the car, still arguing about why Danny's still hanging on to that overpriced hovel he calls home, and why he won't move in with Steve when he spends all his time at Steve's house anyway, when the next thing he knows, Danny's flat on his back and the sharp report of a gun is still ringing in his ears.

They hadn't even made it all the way out of the car.

"Danny!"

Kekela's gone like a shot but it doesn't matter. All Steve sees now is Danny, who's down.

**

Danny's pretty sure he's floating. He can breathe, but he can't feel his fingers. Or toes. Or hair. Or anything else…

Because he knows he doesn't exist.

**

Steve's falling to his knees, hands tearing at Danny's shirt and he can see blood welling up from a vicious gunshot wound to Danny's lower abdomen. Steve doesn't have to look close to know this is bad. Really bad, and he shouts this out to dispatch.

The ambulance is already on its way and Steve's been well trained for this sort of situation. He knows what to do, what he has to do and how and why to help prevent a gunshot victim from bleeding out. But Jesus, this is Danny.

His hands are shaking as he strips off his own shirt to use to press against the entry wound. There is no exit wound.

There's just Danny, who's moaning. And bleeding. Everywhere.

**

Someone's talking. Voices. Voices around him and he knows he's not alone.

Which makes him panic, because he can't hear the old woman. Her reassuring presence is gone, and now it's just him…and the voices.

They were dead on that train. All of them.

Is he still on that train?

Is he dead?

**

Steve can't help but kneel closer to Danny, praying the pressure from his hands and body weight is enough to stop Danny's life from seeping away. Turns anxious ears toward the street, desperate to hear a siren cut through the almost deafening rush of blood filling his head. Willing that siren to scream its presence at any moment. Any second.

Now, please God, make it now.

Whispers to Danny to keep breathing. Keep breathing. In and out. In and out. Slow and sure and relax, Danny, please. Relax and hang on and breathe, for God's sake. Please just keep breathing.

**

Danny is sure he's dead. He died on that train.

That's why he can't hear anything. Feel anything.

It's why he's alone.

He died.

Didn't he?

**

Steve's head hurts because he doesn't realize he's tensed and holding his own breath. His entire focus has narrowed to his hands on Danny's belly and the faint rise and fall of Danny's chest.

Danny, who's not moaning any more; who's not doing anything but lying there, still and quiet and, shit, barely breathing. There's blood everywhere, Danny's lying in it, Steve's hands are soaking in it, and fuck being well versed in keeping a cool head and knowing what needs to be done because he's so fucking well trained. This isn't working. It's not working, and Steve is losing his shit.

He pushes everything he's got onto the wound. Looks for a reaction. Any reaction. It has to hurt like hell. "Are you with me, Danny?" because he can't lose him. "Danny! " This isn't happening. He won't lose him. He cannot.

Blood-slicked fingers frantically scrabble at Danny's neck because not only has Danny stopped breathing, Steve isn't sure he can feel a pulse now, either.

His rising scream mixes with the wail of the siren as the ambulance races into view.

**

It's quiet, Danny thinks.

It's quiet except for some faint noise somewhere nearby. So there's that.

It hurts to move, though. Hurts to be.

**

The EMTs are hauling ass, rushing toward them and Steve's pleading with them, vaguely aware how shrill his voice is as he's screaming and panting out, "He's not breathing! I can't find a pulse! He's not breathing!" 

He reaches a hand out to touch Danny where he can when the paramedics push him away. Bends down to reassure Danny as much as himself as he whispers over and over, “I’m here, Danny. I’m here and I'm not letting go! Do you hear me? I'm here with you and I'm not letting go!”

They're shoving him out of the way, though, and he knows this is what Danny needs but he doesn't want to let go. If he lets go of him, then Danny might let go, too—

They're setting up the defibrillator; he can't stop staring at Danny's face, features gray and so still. So goddamn still and Jesus, fuck, no! “Hold on! Don’t do this!”

“Get back. Sir, you have to let go.”

"Danny, Danny! Danno!"

It's an eternity before the movement of Danny's heartbeat plays out over the screen.

They hurry and load Danny away in the ambulance, tearing away again in a matter of minutes.

Steve stares at the blood on the ground, on his hands. He's dazed and numb and it's all he can do not to puke as he wonders how this is happening?

Can't stop shaking as he dials up Chin's phone while wiping at the tears tracking slowly down his face.

**

Danny slides eyes to the right and there's someone there, someone near him. He can sense they're there, but he can't hear them.

He tenses for a moment, panicked that he's still on that subway train, sitting there with _them_ when he needs to be…where?

Where?

Then he disappears.

**

"Danny."

"Danny."

"Danny, _please_."

Danny doesn't open his eyes when he hears the voice next to his ear, just snaps out a startled, "Wha?" except it sounds out much softer that he'd expect, his voice barely a hoarse whisper. He shifts and moans, tries to push away.

"You're okay," someone assures him. "Take it easy, you're connected here."

Which sounds familiar—connected—even as it makes no sense, and he asks, "Is she here?"

"Who? Grace?" A hand wraps around his. "They won't let her back here. Not yet."

He shakes his head. "She's not like them. They'll follow. All of them."

There's a pause then, but someone's still there holding his hand, and he slowly opens his eyes. Blinks and finds Steve—it is Steve—staring down at him with a creased brow, tired eyes and more stubble than he usually allows on his face.

"What are you doing here?" he mumbles up at him, a faint measure of worry starting to prick at the back of his neck.

Steve's frowning down at him, and Danny gets even more anxious in thinking Steve looks like death warmed over. No! "You can't be on this train, Steve. You can't be here."

"Train? I'm not sure what—of course I'm going to be here. God, Danny, you scared the living shit out of me. You have no idea. I thought you… Christ, you just have no idea."

"Am I like them?"

"What? Like who?"

"Dead. I'm dead."

"No, Danno. God, you're not dead. You're okay. You're gonna be okay. Well, you will be okay." Steve brushes a hand over his forehead and offers up a crooked smile. "You just came out of surgery, Danno, but you're going to be fine. Everything's going to be fine." Steve raises their joined hands, closes his eyes and rests his forehead against their interlocked fingers before peering down at him again. "You're just confused. They did say the drugs would make you a little out there."

Danny shifts, thinking he needs to get up because there's one thing he knows for sure. He can remember her telling him this over and over. "I'm not supposed to be here."

"Danny, stop. Stop. What are you trying to do?" Steve holds him in place, not that it's hard. He's weak and tired and completely exhausted. "You need to rest. Relax." 

Which is what she kept saying to him. 

"Who?"

He looks at Steve, the world around him slowly coming into focus. He still feels confused and fuzzy, though. "I'm not on the train," he whispers.

"What train? What—hold on, do you even know what happened?"

He's just staring up at Steve. "She had to text something about me; I wasn't supposed to be there."

"No," Steve says, nodding. "You weren't. We weren't. HPD had a car on its way, but we got there first. It was just supposed to be a routine questioning, but he shot you the minute he opened the door, do you remember?"

Shot? He breathes deeply, feels a slight pull in his abdomen, but no major pain. "Doesn't hurt."

Which has Steve laughing. "Yeah, well, like I said, they've got you on the good stuff."

"Grace?"

Steve's hand comes down to gently cup around his face. "You'll see her once they get you in a room." He turns away, then, speaking to someone who's just stepped in. "Yeah, he's awake. Just not altogether there, like you said."

A nurse bends over him, her dark eyes catching his and Danny knows that face. Knows her. Stares up at her in wonder.

"I know you."

She offers him a crooked smile as she pats his hand, then fiddles with one of the tubes snaking out from under him. "You just sleep, sugar. Everything's gonna be just fine. You just think on getting better."

Danny frowns, remembering words told to him over and over. "You mean I need to think on getting home."

The nurse gives Steve a long look then gazes back down to him and smiles warmly. "Oh, honey. You are home. You've gotta know that."

Warmth rolls through him, he remembers that feeling from her, and he nods as he waves his hand around until Steve catches it and holds on again. 

"That was her," he explains more to himself than to Steve. "She was there with me—on the train. The whole time."

"Who, what? What train, Danny?" 

He's trying to keep his eyes open, but it's hard. Images come at him, and he has a vague memory of voices echoing through him, has cloudy thoughts of his old partner, Grace, and of Matty and the subway. There was that old woman who was just here, only she's not really so old any more. There were others, too, but he can't picture who they were or why they were there. And Steve. Steve was there. He knows that. Steve was there the whole time, calling to him.

Steve softly laughs and Danny realizes he must have been talking, but he can't really say for sure and so says again because he's drifting away and he can't quite remember what it was he was thinking only a moment ago. "She was with me, and you were, too. I could hear you."

"Okay, whatever you say, Dorothy. Guess you're not in Kansas any more." 

"Not Kansas," he murmurs. "Think…Manhattan."

Danny feels a hand drift tenderly along the line of his forehead just as his eyes slip closed, Steve's voice filling him up. "You just sleep, Danno. You're going to get better in no time, and then I'm going to take you home. To our home." 

There's light breath tickling over his skin and the soft press of lips to his and yeah, he remembers now—this place with its ridiculous palm trees and too much sunshine, itchy sand and crashing surf. 

This is where he's supposed to be. This is his stop—where Grace is. Where Steve is, where it's warm and familiar and safe. This is his home.


End file.
